


Incredible Machine

by karatam



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karatam/pseuds/karatam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana is a mechanic and Brittany is a ballerina. Worlds certainly do collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incredible Machine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynnearlington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnearlington/gifts).



> This was written for Lynne for her birthday.

Santana shifts her shoulders, trying to loosen the kink in her muscles while not dropping the tools in her hands. She’s standing in the pit underneath yet another one of the piece of crap cars that populate her neighbourhood. Seriously, the muffler on this one is shot and is basically falling off and apart. And the jackass customer doesn’t even want to pay for a new one, so she’s stuck here, trying to fasten it back to the undercarriage.

When she finally gets the last bolt tightened, she lowers her arms and drops her tools onto the small shelf lining one edge of the pit. Her neck is killing her, so she tilts her head from one side to the other, stretching the muscles until they burn.

Santana works ten hours a day, six days a week. It’s a lot – a hell of a lot, actually – but it’s what she has to do to get by in this shithole of a town. She has people depending on her, on the money she brings in with a stable job. Her boss was an old friend of her father’s who gave her a job straight out of high school.

A lock of dark hair escapes the bandana she has wrapped around her head and falls into her eyes, tickling her eyelids and causing her to blink instinctively. She reaches up and pushed it back, trying to tuck it back under the bandana but realizes too late that she has grease covering her fingers and she feels the slick slide of grease over the skin of her cheek.

“Fuck. This happens every goddamn time, when will I ever learn.” There aren’t any clean spots on her coveralls to wipe her face with so when she rubs her forearm against her cheek, she really just ends up smearing the grease around. “Where is my damn towel?” She glances around the pit, eventually digging under her pile of discarded tools to find a small, relatively clean, gray towel. When she straightens again, she mumbles, “This thing needs a fucking wash.”

That’s when she catches sight of the stiletto heeled shoes at her eye level on the main floor. She stares at them for a moment, confused as to how they got there, before realizing that they belong to someone. A someone who is standing by the piece of crap car, probably waiting for her to get out of the pit. “Well, shit.” Artie should have been working the desk, but he probably snuck off with his new girlfriend somewhere.

A soft voice drifts down to Santana’s ears, “Um, so I guess you must have lost track of the time or something, because my show finished forty-five minutes ago.”

Santana closes her eyes tight and takes a deep breath. She was supposed to go to the Michaelson Theater at 7 o’clock to watch the debut of what critics were calling ‘an avant-garde new piece’ put on by Lima’s top ballet company. It’s now a quarter to 11. “Shit.” She gives her dirty hands one last wipe with her not so clean towel and heaves herself out of the pit, muscles aching and protesting at this abuse. Her foot slips when she leans her weight on it to stand and her knee takes the brunt of it, slamming against the corner of the pit with enough force to make Santana’s eyes water. 

“You okay, Santana?” Brittany’s eyes are wide and worried, which makes Santana feel awful because she’s the one that missed the show, she doesn’t deserve that worry. 

Grabbing her knee and rubbing the now tender skin, Santana says, “I’m fine, Brit, don’t worry about it.” She reaches out to touch Brittany’s hand, but hesitated when she notices just how clean and pale those elegant fingers are. She drops her hand back to her side; she doesn’t want to get Brittany dirty. “I’m sorry I missed the show. I promise I’ll be there next time you perform.”

Brittany’s bottom lip quivers just the slightest bit before her mouth tightens. “That’s what you said last time, when you missed my final show, and the time before that and the time before that. When’s the last time you’ve even come without me dragging you out the door?” 

“I don’t mean to miss them, I swear. I have to work, you know that, and then I just forget what time it is. Alex and Rafael are depending on me keeping this job, and my boss is an ass. I don’t just think to myself, ‘ _Today, I’m going to miss Brittany’s event, just to piss her off._ ’ God, what kind of girlfriend do you think I am?” Santana realizes that she really isn’t in the position to get mad, but she just can’t help herself. She tired from working until nearly midnight every day for the past two weeks, she’s hot, she’s dirty, she’s hungry and she has to get up early in the morning to see the boys off to school. There’s all this anger in her, just looking for an outlet.

She can feel the way her lips are pulled back against her teeth is what is nearly a snarl and without realizing, she’s taken a step forward. She tries to calm herself down and deliberately relaxes her shoulders. When she looks up, Brittany’s brow is furrowed, and the look on her face is breaking Santana’s heart.

“Fuck. Britt, I didn’t mean to –” Santana says, but is cut off when Brittany speaks, her voice wavering.

“I think you’re the kind of girlfriend who just doesn’t care enough about the dream I’ve had since I was five and saw my first ballet. I think you’re the kind of girlfriend who forgets how much time I’ve given to help you with Alex and Rafael. I think you’re the kind of girlfriend who always forgets to call and always makes excuses to never come over to my place, meet with my parents or hang out with my friends from work.” She stops, staring straight at Santana, daring her to answer.

Santana hesitates, hurtful things waiting on her tongue. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, because anything that she’s capable of saying would just make this whole thing worse. Brittany waits for another few moments before turning around, trying desperately not to sniff loudly. She’s almost out of the garage when Santana sees her bring a hand up to her face to wipe her cheeks.

And she feels like the world’s biggest jackass.

Leaning back to rest against the side of the car still up on the jacks, Santana brushes a stray lock of hair back under her bandana. It takes a few seconds before she remembers how greasy her hands are.

“Fuck.”

//

Brittany fumbles with her keys, unable to stop her fingers from trembling while she attempts to open the door to her penthouse apartment. She wipes her eyes on the cuff of her sweater and heads straight for the box of tissues beside her bed. When she gets there, her legs feel too weak to hold her up and so she sinks down to sit on the edge of her bed. Leaning forward, she buries her face in her hands and doesn’t even try to stop the sobs.

She’s pretty sure she just broke up with Santana. Or Santana just broke up with her.

Either way, she’s not sure her heart can take this without breaking into a thousand little pieces. And she’s pretty sure that would hurt a lot, especially if those pieces are sharp like broken glass.

She’s been in love with Santana Lopez for nearly three years, since her car broke down on the side of the road near Santana’s garage and she couldn’t take her eyes off the super hot mechanic bent over her car engine. As soon as her car was back in the garage, fixed up and ready to go, she was being bent over the hood with Santana’s hand up her skirt.

They had gone out on their first date two weeks and seventeen orgasms later.

Things had been blissful for nearly a full two years, until Santana started forgetting about their dates, working later than she needed and making excuses for not seeing each other. Brittany had put on a smile and tried to understand. Santana was (and still is) raising two young boys and trying to make enough money to keep food on their table and a roof over their heads. Brittany knows that Santana has forgone eating meals so that the boys don’t go hungry. 

And she refuses to take anything from Brittany. After telling her father about Santana’s situation, Brittany had shown up at her door with a cheque that was freely given – Mr. Pierce quite liked Santana, he was finally able to talk to one of Brittany’s girlfriends about his first love, cars – but Santana had just torn it up and not talked to Brittany for two full weeks. Santana refused to take what she called ‘charity’.

Brittany’s hand finds the little stuffed duck that Rafael had shyly presented to her last Christmas and she holds it tight to her chest. Tears are still dripping down her cheeks when she finally falls asleep.

//

When Santana gets home, she immediately head for her meagrely stocked liquor cabinet. What’s in there is generally reserved for special occasions, but right now, she just wants to forget that look on Brittany’s face.

Pouring a glass of scotch, she swirls the liquid around for a few seconds before grimacing and throwing it all back at once. As soon as she feels the alcohol burn down the back of her throat she feels the urge to throw the tumbler across the room. She needs to be up early with the boys. She can’t be hungover in front of them. Getting up, she tucks the bottle back into the cabinet and drops the glass into the sink. She’ll clean it properly in the morning.

She walks down the dark hallway and cracks the door to the boys’ room just a little. Seeing their peacefully sleeping faces makes the clenching in her chest loosen enough for her to breathe again. Then she catches sight of the matching dinosaur stuffed animals that Brittany had brought over a few months before. They never went anywhere without them now.

Suddenly, Santana just wants to cry. Or punch something.

She’s not sure either will really help.

Slipping into her bedroom, Santana doesn’t even bother to do anything but tug off her boots before collapsing into the bed. Her back feels cold with Brittany’s side empty.

She can’t quite hold back the sob that thought evokes.

//

The deeply irritating sound of an alarm clock buzzing wakes Santana up just in time to cook up some scrambled eggs for Alex and Rafael. When they finish shovelling the food into their mouths (seriously, they weigh about two pounds, how on earth did they eat that much?), they grab their backpacks and each kiss Santana on the cheek before racing out the door. A car horn outside honks just before the neighbourhood carpool heads off to the elementary school.

Santana stands at the sink, slowly washing the breakfast dishes and some left over from the day before. Just last week, Brittany had been standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, having stayed over the night before. They had gotten into a soap bubble fight that had turned into  _really_ good sex against the kitchen counter.

“Fuck this.”

Throwing the dish towel into the sink, Santana grabs her keys and is out the door.

//

Brittany jerks her head up when her ears finally pick up the fact that someone is pounding on her door. Rubbing at her eyes, she winces as they sting. They always do that whenever she goes to sleep crying, which has been happening more and more often. She runs a hand quickly through her hair and tugs at the edge of her shirt. When she looks down, she frowns slightly. She hates it when she forgets to change out of her day clothes and gets them all wrinkled.

She pulls open the door, prepared to ask whoever it is to please leave until it isn’t too early in the morning. She freezes when she sees Santana standing there, fiddling with her keys nervously.

“Uh, hey Brit.” Santana says, scratching the back of her neck and refusing to look Brittany in the eye. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t really like you very much right now.” Brittany tries to sound as mean as she can and, for the first time, it must work because Santana flinches away. That involuntary move makes Brittany’s heart hurt and she takes a step back, holding the door open. “Come on.”

Santana brushes by her and Brittany has to close her eyes against the fluttering in her chest and the feel of their skin touching. It happens every time.

“I don’t fit in.” Santana’s voice snaps Brittany out of her daydream and her eyes open again.

“What?”

Scuffing her toe against the edge of the carpet, Santana mutters, “I don’t fit in your world. It’s all black ties and evening wear and matching your shoes to your purse or handbag or clutch or whatever the fuck. It’s ballerinas and galas and classical music and champagne. I fall over when I try to wear high heels. When people meet me, it’s like they can tell that I work with my hands, it’s like they can see the grease on my hands. I’m always checking to make sure I didn’t miss anything. When we go to dinner with your parents, the bill is more than I make in two weeks. People find out about Alex and Rafael and they just stare at me with this fucking  _look_ on their faces. You’re beautiful and elegant and perfect while I spend all day under a car in coveralls.”

The intense brown eyes staring at her are too much and Brittany has to look away, her heart sinking in her chest. Santana is about to actually, officially, for-good break up with her and she doesn’t want to watch.

“I don’t fit in your world at all, but I don’t care.” Santana steps forward and grabs Brittany’s hand in hers, squeezing softly. “I’m the poor mechanic from the wrong side of the tracks with way too much baggage for just one person, but if you want me there, I’ll stay in your world forever. Alex and Rafe love you and you’ve helped them get past the fact that their dad is gone.” Tears leak from Brittany’s eyes and Santana gently wipes them away with a thumb.

“I love you, Brittany Pierce. And I need to stop giving a flying fuck what other people think about me, because you’re all that matters. So tomorrow night, I’ll be there, front row with roses to throw on stage at the end.” Her eyebrows draw together in sudden confusion. “That is what you’re supposed to do, right? Give flowers to the prima ballerina? Or is that the opera? I saw it in a movie once.”

Brittany can’t stop the giddy laugh from escaping and rushes forward to wrap her arms around Santana’s neck, burying her face in a warm neck. Strong arms come around her waist and hold her tight, pressing their bodies as close together as she can. Santana slides her hand up the back of Brittany’s shirt and Brittany shivers at the feel of the calluses on Santana’s fingers catching slightly on her skin.

“I love you too, Santana.” The tension coiled in Santana’s muscles seems to rush out of her and she sags against Brittany’s frame for a few moments before straightening. A hand comes up and fits against Brittany’s jaw, turning her head to meet Santana’s lips in an indecently hot kiss. 

When breathing starts becoming a serious issue, Brittany pulls back and stares intently at Santana, panting slightly. “We need to go to your garage.”

Puzzled by the demand out of left field, since she had been planning on getting naked very soon, Santana asks, “Why?”

“Because I want to have sex on the hood of my car, with grease on your face and a bandana in your hair. Because that’s who you are and I love you.”

Santana blinks hard against tears and reaches for Brittany’s hand again, entwining their fingers together. “It’s how we started, right?” And then they’re running out of Brittany’s apartment, slamming the door shut on their way.

She’s never driven so fast in her life, but the promise of Brittany leaning up against the hood of a vintage Mercedes with her panties nowhere in sight is too much for her to ignore.

Brittany leans over the console to place a soft kiss against her cheek and Santana feels like she’s flying.


End file.
